New York's Finest (Poets)
by style3645
Summary: Aspiring alt-humour poet Jake Peralta's journey to become the master of poetry is peppered with small-time gigs, prestigious contests and filled with a lot of hard work. On the way he meets rising star of the poetry world Amy Santiago, becomes her bitter rival, helps her out of a slump, and maybe falls a little bit in love with her.


**Disclaimer: _Brooklyn Nine-Nine _and it's characters are copyright to its owners. I own an intense love for it, and that's about it.**

* * *

Jake Peralta's eyes rolled lazily over the page of the book without much interest. After failing to make the New York Poets Society's yearly anthology for the last three years, he really supposed he should be paying more attention to the work of the significantly more talented poets that had been put in, but his mind was honestly on more pressing issues. Issues like the infestation of rats at his day job (how should he have known that stashing his sandwich away in his desk for later would've caused so much trouble?) and the crushing debt he was in (though that was worth it, he thought, as his massage chair hummed).

Flipping the page, he decided to read the next poem backwards, just to amuse himself. As his eyes moved up the page, Jake had to admit to himself that it was pretty good and wondered if it would sound quite as elegant if he read it the right way. His eyes continued to the top. And then they stopped. He stared.

Jake stared at the two words on the page. The name of the author.

Amy Santiago.

Jake grumbled audibly at that. It figured Santiago would have made the anthology. She always beat him.

"Peralta, how lovely to see you."

Jake turned toward that annoying drawl laced with sarcasm and put on his best oh-look-it's-a-pile-of-dog-poop face.

"Santiago," he acknowledged. Around them the buzz of chatter and alcohol swirled around the bar. "If I may ask," said Jake, "what are you doing here?"

"Same as you, obviously." Santiago had a dangerous glint in her eyes. Jake found their darkness pretty attractive. In a hateful kind of way, of course. "Shaw's has an open mic on Friday nights."

"So you're here to read out your poetry. Well, joke's on you, because I was here first, and mine is heaps better!" Jake's philosophy on arguments was to act like a child, persistent and annoying. Whine on long enough and his enemy would concede, just to shut him up.

"I think all the times I've outranked you in competitions begs to differ," said Santiago, with that signature smirk she plastered on to her face whenever she had the upper hand.

"I'll have you know that I have beaten you six times these past few years."

"As opposed to my fourteen. You're well on the way to losing that bet, my friend. So you can kiss your car goodbye."

She walked away before Jake could retaliate with a jibe about how her shirt made her look like a fairy, and to his annoyance snagged the microphone after a physical comedy duo (Hitchcock and Scully, if he remembered right) bumbled off the stage.

As Santiago began to read one of her poems (this was the one about sunflowers she had read when she beat him at the Stoatser competition. Not that he was keeping track.) Jake listened, but only because he had nothing better to do and he wanted to get up on the stage as soon as she finished stealing his audience.

Her voice was pretty nice when she wasn't using it to insult him. And she managed to make sunflowers sound sexy, so Jake supposed he had to give her brownie points for that. And she was so confident up on stage, with a strong posture and clear, articulate voice that carried to the fringes of the bar. Jake bet she was the valedictorian in high school.

As Santiago finished there was a polite smattering of applause and some rowdy cheering from the drunker fellows in the back. Jake chose to ignore the audible whisper of one man saying to his friend it was a relief someone actually good was on tonight.

As he ascended the steps he swallowed his nerves and a bit of bile. The spotlights blinked. They obscured his view. Allowed him to focus on the task at hand. He vaguely registered Santiago sitting down on a bar stool, tilting her head up to watch him. The stage was Jake's, and he decided to start with an old favourite.

"Hey, everyone. I'm Jake Peralta, and this is the Alphabet Poem."

One breath. In. Out. And then he started:

"A: All types of maths are useless.

B: Brownies taste good.

C: Cops eat doughnuts, but not as many as me.

D: Dogs are man's best friend..."

Here they were at the Stoatser again. The score was now fifteen-twelve to Santiago. Jake wondered what could have brought on this impediment in her poetry writing abilities. He wanted to send it the largest box of chocolates he could afford.

He found her stressing out just out of the building, fifteen minutes before her time to speak. Smoking a cigarette. He snorted the ashes out of his mouth and hoped the lung cancer left with it.

As Jake approached Santiago, he opened his mouth to gloat. But then stopped when he was met with a glare that could put him and his entire family in a grave.

"Not now, Peralta. Just... not now." Her hand shook as she ran it through her hair absentmindedly. She puffed the cigarette. The smoke went everywhere. Jake coughed.

"Not looking so hot, are we, Santiago? The bet ends at the Brooklyn Book Festival. That's just three months until you have to be one of those girls in my car." Just to be clear, Jake didn't specify that Santiago had to go on a date with him if she lost their bet of who would come out on top in more competitions. She said that. Because that was the worst thing possible for her. _He_ honestly wouldn't mind a date that much.

She was looking uncharacteristically silent. Most people would have taken that as a symbol of concern. Jake took it as a sign he should carry on.

"My poem is so good it knocks yours out of the ballpark. Actually, it's not even in the ballpark, it's that good. It's up in space and on mountains and in deep sea trenches and-"

What.

Jake stopped. He stopped because there were _tears_ dripping down Santiago's face.

Amy Santiago crying.

Amy. Santiago. Crying.

Jake felt like this was his fault. He wasn't comfortable with emotions.

"Uh, hey, San- um, Amy. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you sad."

Amy dropped the cigarette and squished it with her foot. Jake watched as her black shoe violently scraped the ashes into oblivion. It was easier than looking into her wet eyes.

"Of course you didn't," she said, sarcasm still evident in her thick voice. Jake looked up. He saw anger and spite. He deserved that. "Since when do you care about how I feel?"

"I- I just-"

"You are just what I need right now! Going on and on and being an absolute dick about everything!"

Jake resented that statement. Santiago wasn't exactly a princess when it came to competition. But he felt it was best for her to let it out. Jake got the feeling she didn't get to do that very often. She was always so wound up. Even he could see that.

"Why do you always have to come and make me feel worse about myself? I failed the Stoatser last year and I'm going to fail again!"

Now Jake had to interject. "You came second last year, Amy."

"Exactly! That's like the difference between an A and an A plus."

Jake, who had never gotten above a B, couldn't sympathise. "Look, you've just hit a rough spot, and-"

"Don't try that on me, Jake Peralta." she said. She took a step forward. "You're the last person I'd take writing advice from."

"What does that mean?" Jake took a step back. Their proximity was making him uncomfortable. Their conversation was making him uncomfortable.

"You write random nothings and call it poetry! You have no regard for conventions or criticisms. You just do whatever the hell you want, while the rest of us work hard to be good at what we do!" Amy raised her voice.

Jake was done playing the carpet. He was done being walked all over. He was done having his poetry, his passion put down. "For your information, my poetry is not random nothings, it's called alternative humour. And why should you call my poetry bad? Yours isn't much better."

She opened her mouth, teeth bared in a snarl, and before Jake knew it he was yelling. "You follow the rules to the exact letter, and you're afraid to think out of the box. You're afraid of what other people think of you, and you're trying too hard to impress them when you should be writing for yourself. This isn't all a competition Santiago. This is a craft. It's not perfect, that's why we're always working, always writing, to write a better poem. Taking inspiration from everything around us and writing something from our hearts, not just for praise. That's what being a poet is all about."

Jake was panting after all that shouting. His throat hurt. But he thought he had gotten his point across.

Now the anger was draining out of him faster than water down a drain and he just felt tired. He could see Amy, shocked into silence, was too. Jake felt they owed each other an apology. He opened his mouth, but she just shook her head and pushed past him. He had an impulse to grab her hand, to keep her there, but it went as soon as it came and she had gone back inside.

Worn sneakers cut through the blades of grass as Jake strolled through Prospect Park, notebook in hand. The sky couldn't decide if it wanted to be cloudy or not, and had settled for a blanket of grey fluff with a few blue oases of sky.

Jake liked to write in his massage chair. But then it went and broke itself, creating a problem. Sure, he had another five, but that one had been his favourite. So Jake decided to come out to the park.

He passed the lake, by which he wrote a poem about leaves. He passed a tree, under which he wrote a poem about ducks. He saw a bench. It looked like someone was there. But it seemed like a nice place to write. So Jake was sure they wouldn't mind if he sat down there.

As he made his way over, Jake thought about the Stoatser trophy sitting in his house. He supposed he should feel elated for winning, but every time he thought of the Stoatser competition he thought of Amy. Amy crying. Amy yelling. At him. He wondered when he subconsciously started calling her Amy.

Maybe it was because he was thinking so much about her, or maybe it was just fate, but of course it had to be her sitting on the bench. Jake could have left. He probably should. But he wanted to make things right. Their rivalry had turned into a weird friendship over the past two years, and he hadn't realised how much he would miss it until it was gone. How much he would miss her.

She was hunched over with an intense expression of concentration, scribbling thoughts down single-spaced, double sided. Santiago style. Amy Santiago made writing poetry beautiful.

"Hi."

He couldn't read her expression. Surprised eyes, tensed shoulders, a small frown. He decided to learn from last time and tread lightly.

"May I sit down?"

She considered. Jake gave her his best puppy-dog face. Something softened in her eyes and he saw a ghost of a smile. "Okay."

He sat on the bench, not right next to her but not on the other side either. "Doing some writing?" he asked.

"Yeah. You?"

"Same." Jake didn't feel safe enough to move past small talk. At least they were talking. Baby steps.

"How's it going?"

Amy turned towards him, legs crossed and one arm over the bench. She brushed a lock of hair over her shoulder. Her hair looked nice when it wasn't in a ponytail, Jake thought.

"Not too good. I've been having trouble for a while now. I can't write and whenever I do it's crap." She looked pretty desperate. He could see it in those eyes. No fire now. How Jake wanted that determined glint back.

"When did it start?"

"A while ago now, couple months before the Stoatser," said Amy. "I'm starting to freak out, you know. There's two weeks until the deadline for the Brooklyn Book Festival, and I'm afraid if I don't pick up my game I won't have anything to submit."

"You know," said Jake seriously. "I think you're in a bit of a slump."

That got a smile out of her. Jake reminded himself to make her smile more often. She flexed her legs, looking more relaxed. "Impossible. I don't slump."

"That's what I thought too. Now, don't tell anyone, but I've been in a slump before."

"Really?" Amy raised an eyebrow playfully.

"You seem surprised." Jake was surprised.

"I just naturally assumed your whole life was a slump."

They did it. They broke the ice. Jake and Amy began to laugh.

They began to chat.

He teased her about her shirt. It was the same one she was wearing at Shaw's. She admitted it made her look like a fairy.

She teased him about his poem about having a pumpkin head. He admitted he was drunk when he wrote that one.

They wouldn't have noticed they were moving closer if Jake hadn't reached to scratch his nose and accidentally brushed her arm.

"Sorry," he said.

She just smiled. They were good.

One week later, Jake was on the phone with Amy. Yes, he had her number. Turns out when they weren't busy snarking at each other they were pretty good friends. Turns out she was a pretty good poet. Who gave pretty good advice.

"...and basically, that's how a metaphor works. Did that help?"

"You explained it better than my high school teacher ever could."

Her laugh sounded tinny over the phone but Jake would still listen to it all day. He decided to drop the bomb. "How's your slump going?"

"It's still pretty bad," Amy replied. "But I have a draft that I think I can work with for the Book Festival."

"You know," said Jake. "My friend Rosa gave me some advice on how to end my slump.

"Yeah? What did she say?"

"Fly to Montreal, hit a classy hotel bar, bone a stranger. Slump over."

"Did it work?" Jake could practically hear Amy's amused smirk.

"It strangely did."

They chuckled.

They were silent a while.

Jake's emotional range had expanded enough to sense there was something there. It hung between them. Amy addressed it first.

"Listen, Peralta, I'm sorry for what happened at the Stoatser. I was angry and I took it out on you."

"It's okay. I remember yelling too. It was both our fault. So, uh, I'm sorry too."

Amy laughed at that. "You gave a pretty good pep talk, though," she said.

"I know. Someone should have written that down."

There was silence again. Jake didn't want to hang up. But he also didn't want to rack up an enormous phone bill (though it was probably too late for that, judging by how much he and Amy had spoken over the last week).

"I hope you get over your slump soon."

"Thanks. Good luck for the Book Festival."

"Jeez, the endgame. That came fast."

"I know."

"Well, good luck to you too."

Peralta: 17, Santiago: 17

Three years ago they had made a bet to see who would have the most wins by today. The Brooklyn Book Festival was the tiebreaker.

Along with Jake and Amy, eighteen other aspiring poets filled the front row, white with nerves. This competition was a big thing. The $500 dollar prize could go a long way. $500 would pay off most of his outstanding electricity bill, Jake thought.

He heard Amy next to him, head down, eyes focussed (she had that glint back, he noted), reciting the criteria they had been given on how their poems would be judged. "Reliance on notes, content, delivery... reliance on notes, content, delivery."

Jake put a hand on her shoulder. She tensed as she looked his way. "You'll do great," he said.

"But what if they think my poem's crap?"

"Hey, you made the shortlist, didn't you? Out of hundreds of people, you're in the top twenty."

The corners of her mouth tilted ever so slightly. Progress.

Amy leaned in. Closer. Jake's heart accelerated. "Actually, I've lowered my standards a little, just this once," she said in a low voice. "I don't care if I win-"

"Well, that's a start-" Jake began, trying to keep calm in both body and mind (not an easy feat).

"As long as I beat you." She moved away. Jake was confused. And flustered. And flummoxed. A word he'd learned recently, and he was it. At least he had gotten a smile out of her.

Jake decided to play along. "Well you'll be disappointed, then, because-"

The announcer's voice filled the room, calling Amy to the stage. She blanched.

"Good luck," said Jake, patting her on the back as she rose from her seat. He couldn't help adding, "You'll need it." For old time's sake. They were still rivals, of course.

She turned around and again leaned in real close. Oops, though Jake. "When I win and I get your car, I'm gonna use it to teach myself stick."

"You wouldn't," Jake said, only half-faking his indignation.

She smirked as she made her way up to the stage. Jake smirked back when she tripped over slightly on the last step.

"...and through the silken river of time

I found in me somewhere to call mine."

Jake cheered loudly as the crowd applauded Amy's performance.

As Amy slipped back into her seat, Jake told her, "You did great." When she rolled her eyes, he put his hand on hers and looked straight into those eyes. "Hey. I mean that."

"Thanks." That soft smile made him melt.

As soon as the moment melted away, Amy went into extreme OCD nit-picking mode. "... and I almost fumbled line 16. That was a disaster. And then I sneaked a peek at the judges and Podolski looked so bored and-"

"Podolski always looks like he's got something under his nose. I bet it's his son, I hear he's a brat," said Jake. "Don't worry, I was looking at them too. Holt looked really impressed."

They continued to discuss Amy's poem during the intermission, and as each minute scampered by like that rat who lived in his desk Jake began to shake more and more. He was next.

It was Amy's turn to do the reassuring. "You'll do great, Peralta," she said.

"You bet I will."

Now she really rolled her eyes.

And the announcer came back to the stage and it was happening. "Thanks for waiting, folks. Now please welcome to the stage our next contestant: Jake Peralta, reciting his acrostic poem, 'PMULS'.

And then the crowed was clapping and it was his cue to get up and just before he did Amy leaned over and pressed her lips to Jake's cheek. It was longer than a peck but not long enough and then she was gone. Man, was it cold without her.

"Good luck, Jake," she said softly.

Jake managed a smile and rose from his seat. He squished past the other competitors. He headed down the aisle that seemed to span forever. He climbed the stairs. Stepped up to the microphone. The spotlights were in his eyes again and here he was in his element, and, all his nerves ran away, lest they be pounded by the Jake-Hammer.

"Pmuls is slump spelled backwards.

My words keep me going.

Unappreciated are the people that keep me from slumping.

Love is made of pmuls.

Slumping is for losers."

And then it was over all as soon as it begun and the crowd cheered. Jake stepped away from the mic and saw Amy clapping and the judges writing things down and felt a sense of euphoria.

"I still can't believe that Doug Judy guy won."

"I know. His poem was _so_ sexual."

Jake and Amy were standing outside the building of the competition. They leaned against the bricks comfortably, shoulder to shoulder.

Jake raised the issue. "Neither of us placed, so technically I didn't beat you, did I?"

Amy snorted. "And who said you would have won? You are right, though."

"What should we do? Go another year?"

"Why don't we call it a draw?"

"I can deal with that," said Jake.

"So I guess we both lose, then," said Amy.

They looked at each other. Now, or never, thought Jake.

"Seriously," he said. Amy's eyes were expectant. "Would you like to go out for dinner?"

She left him hanging for a bit. He had to appreciate that. They _were_ rivals. Finally he saw that soft look in her eyes and he knew the answer. "I'd like that."

As Jake made to go, Amy raised a hand. "But," she said, "I get to drive your car."

Maybe they both won after all.


End file.
